


The Advantage of Permanence

by beggarscantbchoosers



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Anyway uh, Canon Compliant, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, assuming you ascribe to my canon which involves Leo Nico and Zo all getting it on in the background, mentions of previous imprisonment, probably, some more explicit than others, tbh it's mostly just Leo sat alone on his bed and angsting, there's not exactly explicit porn but there are descriptions of sexual situations, what do you mean that's not canon?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3857449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beggarscantbchoosers/pseuds/beggarscantbchoosers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He would have confessed his sins in a heartbeat, taken the castration without flinching, if he’d thought for a moment they had this book."</p><p>The night after his acquittal, Leo contemplates a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Advantage of Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> Because a. I'm not convinced Leo was actually as chill after that trial as he pretended to be and b. I am convinced he has more dirty drawings somewhere that he just hid better than his usual sketches
> 
> Also: c. because I like writing OT3 so fight me???
> 
> "Drawing is like making an expressive gesture with the advantage of permanence." - Henri Matisse

Leo shuddered, and collapsed back onto his bed. He’d just seen Lucrezia out, with smiles and soft kisses even as he felt the burn of betrayal, his suspicions raised. His denunciation was in a woman’s hand, and he feared it was the hand of a woman he’d trusted to be alone in his rooms, feared it was _her_ hand, that she’d found something that made her aware… He never claimed to know the hearts of women, but he thought Lucrezia was in love with him, and he knew that women could be dangerous creatures when scorned. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, and rolled over onto his stomach on the mattress, reaching beneath the bed, fingertips seeking the hidden latch that would… Ah, there. The secret drawer he’d had built in to the bed frame clicked open, slid out almost soundlessly to reveal the one sketchbook he’d rather die than have seen. He would have confessed his sins in a heartbeat, taken the castration without flinching, if he’d thought for a moment they had this book. The moment that Francesco Pazzi revealed the notebook in his hands, the fear had drained out of Leo, and he knew he could still win. They wouldn’t have tried to lean on the shock value of his so called ‘demonic’ sketches if they had possession of this book instead – they wouldn’t have needed to. Much as that sketch that Jacapo had hidden, this book would have damned him.

 

But not him alone.

 

He took another deep breath, feeling the faint tremble in his hands, and he turned the combination lock – his own design – that held the book tightly chained. It was the best security he could offer; he alone knew the combination for this. To those who truly knew him, it wouldn’t be so hard to guess… But thankfully, there were only two who knew him so well, and those two would never betray him. He spun the tiny dials, entered the combination – 20, 13, 3, 14, 13… A T, an M, and an N and another M… And a C, right in the middle, for _cuore_ , because between the two of them they owned his, complete and entire. He put the chain to the side, cracked the book open and ran his fingers, ever so lightly, over the smudged charcoal sketch on the first page. Fifteen year old Zo grinned up at him, one eye bruised and swollen, a trickle of blood caught in the curve of his lower lip. He was beaten and bleeding and still the most gorgeous creature Leo had ever seen, and half this book was filled with a steady progression of sketches, charting Zo’s rise from skinny, soft-hearted street rat to the man he had become, broad shouldered and strong, with that same, wonderful heart, that he’d carve out and throw at Leo’s feet if ever he went mad enough to ask for such a thing. He wouldn’t, of course, and not just because he doesn’t know how he’d survive without Zo’s warm hands to prop him up. The other reason was in there too; Nico, of course, though to get to the pictures of his apprentice Leo had to flick past more sketches of his oldest friend, pausing only momentarily on one of his favourites – Zo, stretched out on his stomach on the bed, fast asleep, with nothing covering him save Leo’s own hand, spread out across the small of his back as if to hold him there whilst Leo sketched. (Leo remembered drawing that, remembered staring and realising he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to sketch or touch more, and had settled for a compromise, just resting his right hand on warm, bare skin whilst his left flew across the page, trying to get the smooth curve of Zo’s back just right, and he’d drawn his own hand before he’d realised it, so intent was he upon the sight in front of him, and he’d contemplated starting over but realised he _liked_ the sight of his hand there, that tiny hint of possession, of ownership, the way Zo hadn’t even stirred at the touch, knowing even subconsciously that Leo was someone he could trust, quite literally, at his back. It made Leo choke up a little bit, though he’d composed himself by the time his sketch was finished and Zo was rolling onto his back, Leo’s traitorous hand dragging across his skin as he turned, a lazy grin fixed on the _artista_ as he stared at his own fingers, splayed out across Zo’s belly, and the evidence, just below, that Zo didn’t mind the attention at all…)

The next page was much the same; he’d drawn Zo far more over the years than just this book could hold but he’d never felt the need to hide the others, those where Zo was fully clothed and simply laughing, smiling, collapsed snoring across the table. This book held only those that were compromising, those that could ruin him and his boys. It was the latter that concerned Leo more than anything else, the latter that was the reason he hid this sketchbook so carefully, because he’d never cared about his own reputation but Zo was already treading on thin ice, and Nico’s father would have them both hung for corrupting his son, if he could. If he only had proof; and this book was full of proof, full of pictures of Leo’s boys, from quick sketches captured in the heat of the moment (the expanse of a dark, furred chest beneath him, the line of his own torso interrupted by big hands clutching his hips, Zo’s head thrown back in pleasure; or the smooth curve of Nico’s back, arms trembling beneath his weight, forehead pressed into the pillow; or hands in any and all combinations clutching at the sheets, at each other, at skin) to more detailed drawings that had taken far longer to complete (Nico, arching up off the bed, his head turned to the side, eyes hazy and unfocused, teeth sunk into his own lip in a weak attempt to keep silent, with one hand clutching desperately at the frame, the other buried in coarse dark curls. Zo, lying between pale thighs, big hands dwarfing the teen’s slender hips, eyes half closed with contentment as he held Nico just on the edge, keeping him from writhing against the mattress as he clearly wanted to, just so Leo could finish his drawing, and staring at the sketch now, Leo could almost hear the low rumble of Zo’s affectionate laughter as Nico begged). Leo leafed past all of these, past Zo curled over Nico, pinning him to the mattress, past a first person view of Nico on his knees, past hands and mouths and legs slung over hips, through to the first time Nico fucked Zo instead of the other way around, and Leo stared at the look of near wonder he’d captured on Nico’s face, the languid, liquid trust in Zo’s eyes as he let himself be taken, and wondered how anyone dare say the way he loves these two is wrong. Behind him, the door swung open, clattering as it hit the wall, and Leo flinched, and clutched the open sketchbook to his chest to hide the damning evidence within, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the fire as he wondered if he had time to throw the book in it before the soldiers took him back to that dark, filthy cell-

“Leo, mate, it’s just us.” Zo murmured, one big, warm hand settling on Leo’s trembling shoulder. The mattress dipped behind him, and a moment later arms wrapped around his waist and a head pressed against his shoulder.

“It’s so good to have you back, _maestro_.” Nico said, fervently. Leo took one hand off the book to press over Nico’s where they’d folded together against his bare stomach.

“That our book?” Zo asked, smiling fondly – he already knew the answer – and held out his hands for it. Leo’s eyes went wide and he clutched it closer, forgetting, for a moment, that Zo was muse and model, and if anyone could be trusted with these sketches, it was him. Zo made to draw his hands back again, expression concerned, and Leo forced himself to relax, to shove the book into his oldest friend’s hands.

“I was just looking.” Leo murmured, and Zo’s eyes went soft as he stared down at the open page.

“Yeah, ‘s one of my favourites too.” He replied, and turned the book to show Nico when the boy drew back from Leo in order to lean over and peek. He went red at the sight, but grinned a little nonetheless. Their boy was getting less shy, the longer he spent with them.

“I do like that one.” He agreed, and Zo grinned and leant in to kiss him, teasingly light.

“Yeah? Think we should recreate it? Just so Leo can check he drew it right first time, of course.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Nico laughed, cheeks pink.

“Of course.” He teased, and glanced over at Leo, the smile falling off his face. “ _Maestro_?” Leo was glancing nervously around the room, eyes narrowed as if seeking out a secret spy. Lucrezia had definitely left, yes? What if it _was_ her, what if she’d denounced him because she’d overheard something, knew he loved these two more than he could ever love her? But then, why _Jacapo_ , of all people? Why…?

“Leo.” Zo called, quiet but firm, and took both of the _artista_ ’s hands in his own. “Leo, love, come back to us.” He cajoled, and Leo blinked his way out of his paranoid imaginings, staring into Zo’s concerned brown eyes, before turning to see Nico watching him with the same concern. They both smiled a little, almost relieved, when he focused on them, and Leo had his answer. These two would _never_ betray him; they loved him just as much as he loved them, and maybe Jacapo had been right on that front; he’d never love a woman the way he loved Zo and Nico, but then, he’d never love another man the same way either. He smiled at them, seeing them both relax a little more, and took the book from Nico’s unresisting hands, flicking to a new page and reaching into the drawer for a stick of charcoal, before waving a hand to gesture them to begin.

“Well, get on with it, then.” He teased. “Artistic inspiration waits for no man.” Nico and Zo exchanged a look, smirking slightly, and a moment later the sketchbook fell to the floor, forgotten, as they both advanced on him, Zo muttering something about showing him _just_ how much they’d missed him.

The next morning, Nico and Zo would wake up to find it lying next to them on the bed, open to a fresh sketch of the two of them, curled together in sleep, Zo’s hand over Nico’s heart, and Leo already downstairs, frantically working on something that seemed to involve a lot of smoke… But that was the morning, and it and its consequences were distant and unpredictable, and Leo had no space left to concern himself with thoughts of it whilst the two men he loved more than life itself were holding him close, reassuring him with every tender touch, every whispered endearment, that they loved him too and that they would never betray him. Afterwards, Leo slept without fear, Nico in his arms and Zo a warm, reassuring presence against his back, and knew that he was completely safe.


End file.
